


I Guess That's Love

by runboyrun



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/pseuds/runboyrun
Summary: Stan shook as Richie held him.Richie was used to this - used to the damaged boy with his fractured face and shattered soul. Used to playing clean up to his meltdowns and sitting with him through his dissociations. Richie knew he was a burden, wouldn’t ever say it, but Stan knew.Stan was tired of knowing.





	I Guess That's Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [punk_rock_yuppie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/gifts), [cathect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathect/gifts), [queenjameskirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenjameskirk/gifts).



“You can’t torture yourself like this, Stan.” Richie said softly, making Stan jump and jerk away from the mirror.

Richie stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with exhaustion seeping through his bones. His bag from work, jammed with records, was still over his shoulder. If Richie had already finished his shift than Stan had been staring a lot longer than he’d intended.

Then again, he never meant to look at them.

The scars, some as wide as a dime, made an unholy halo of mauled skin around his face. The skin was still sensitive, years later, and would burn if he smiled too hard - the skin pulling like when Her teeth clung to the edge of his pores when they tugged out of his flesh. Luckily he didn’t smile too often anymore.

Today had been a good day up until now. He and Richie had made breakfast, played with Turtle - their tortoise shell cat, and watched Arrested Development until Richie left for work. It was a lazy day, and Stan had intended to keep it that way as he munched on his toast and scratched behind Turtle’s ears. It was a good day.

He had been brushing his teeth and happened to look up. Richie had worked with him on taking the towels off the mirrors already, but Stan was blindsided. He, for the most joyful of moments, had forgotten about them. The air in his lungs seemed to disappear, he didn’t even exhale. It was gone. Gone like his friends. Gone like his hope.

Gone gone _gone_.

He had seen his face for what felt like the first time, remembered Her - Her face, Her teeth, Her lights.

She had broken him and he had had the audacity to think he was whole. 

Richie had approached him, Stan hadn’t even noticed, and slid his arms around Stan’s slight shoulders. He didn’t comment on the trembling, knew it made Stan feel worse. 

Richie was used to this - used to the damaged boy with his fractured face and shattered soul. Used to playing clean up to his meltdowns and sitting with him through his dissociations. Richie knew he was a burden, wouldn’t ever say it, but Stan knew. 

Stan was tired of knowing.

He could feel Richie’s breath stop for a moment, a break in his own presence at Stan’s sudden cease in trembling. Stan felt him cling tighter for a moment as Stan started to move away. A brief clench of fear in this comforting hands.

“Stan?”

“I think I’ll take a bath.”

Richie looked perplexed, Stan never showered, let alone took a bath, before 9:00 PM - his schedule rigid. But the look on his face must have read to Richie for the exhaustion it was because he smiled softly and relented.

“Okay, Stan. Want me to wash your hair?” Richie asked, petting across his cheek. Don’t do that, don’t touch his scars, his filth, his failure, _don’tdon’tdon’t-_

“Nah, it’s okay.” Stan said, leaning his head down to push out of Richie’s hand. Richie noticed and let go with a small frown. Stan moved to fill the tub, yanking the dial to hot without thinking to check temperature - that only made Richie frown more.

Stan knew he was toeing a line of figuring out what was wrong and giving Stan his space. It wasn’t ever a safe line to walk, and he didn’t want to let Richie torture himself trying to figure it out.

Without another word, Stan shoved a huge smile on his face that he was sure didn’t reach his eyes and pushed Richie out of the bathroom. Richie stumbled back, momentary shock on his face, giving way to a small laugh at Stan leaving the door cracked.

“Will you grab me a beer? Should get the full experience.” Stan said, angling himself so his rapidly cracking mask wouldn’t be seen. Richie would know. _Keep it together, Stan._

“Sure, babe.” Richie said, turning away from the door to go down the hall. 

They didn’t have any beer. Stan knew they had finished it last night. Richie would see the empty fridge, and to be sweet he’d run downstairs to the corner store below their apartment and buy a six pack of the Ale Stan prefered, even though Richie prefered the hops of the IPA. He’d be gone for six minutes, eight if the elevator wasn’t on their floor.

Stan stood motionless, holding his breath. He heard the jingle of keys, slap of converse across their wood floor, and finally the open and slam of their front door. 

Stan closed the bathroom door.

His eyes slipped shut as the lock slid into place, twisting it one, two, three times to be sure. Without opening them, he turned and yanked the medicine cabinet open.

Everything was organized in a system of use, shape, and color that Richie constantly said he could never hope to follow. Stan had done it himself, all pieces of their lives laid out meticulously enough to calm his nerves if only for a moment in his day. 

So, because Stan had set up the cabinet, he knew immediately where the razors were.

Richie probably didn’t even remember that they owned them, collecting a film of dust from when he thought straight razor shaving would somehow fit his _aesthetic_. Stan had laughed at that, how Richie had yelped at the first failed swipe and proclaimed the outdated method was _Medieval, Stanley! Simply medieval._

Stan remembered they were sharp.

He opened the box with care, making sure not to kink or tear the flimsy cardboard packaging. He removed one blade, slid the box shut, and returned it to its place on the shelf.

Stan turned the tap off before the tub could fill too high, he wasn’t going to make any more of a mess than he had to. He removed his clothes and folded them neatly on the toilet cover. Rising from his placement, he caught his eye in the mirror.

It wasn’t as jarring this time. Stan didn’t feel like he was really there anymore - really anywhere at all. The scars were there, and they would sit risen on his skin like brands of his cowardice - of his fear, until he died. What were two more scars? Even if they never would heal.

Stan climbed into the tub.

The water was hot, too hot for his taste, but that didn’t matter. Stan sat upright and stared at the water warped mirage of his legs, his hands, and finally the razor submerged in their grasp. 

Now that he was here, it felt a little worse. A little itch between his eyes was starting, telling him how this was a bad idea. Stan didn’t listen, when had that voice ever helped him before? It couldn’t help him now.

His arms came out of the water, lifting the razor to eye level. Stan watched a grainy caricature of his face in the metal as streams of water slid off the facing, bleeding to droplets that plinked off of the corner edge. The sconces above the sink caught the metal, making three small glints across the likeness of his face in the titanium.

Three little lights, swirling across the dripping water.

 _Deadlights_.

He was helpless to close his eyes then, and he couldn’t think to do it now. 

Dive into the black head on. It’s the least he could do.

His eyes stayed where they were, trained on an image no longer there, as he brought the razor to his arm. He felt the soft bite of steel against his wrist. 

Stan has never had a tolerance for pain. That was part of why She was so awful. The dig of the teeth was almost as awful as the glimpse of the lights. He had cried and cried, look at the baby - crying for himself.

Stan cried when the razor sliced. He shrieked, voice cracking like when he was a child. The sound tore from his throat, any attempt at mental distance ruined.

He sat there; naked, sobbing, and so fucking _afraid_. The cut was deep, and blood was sluicing into the pool of water beneath him. It went from wrist to elbow, but was only a proper laceration for a few inches. It didn’t spurt, which meant he had missed his target, that this wouldn’t be quick. Stan the Man had failed again.

It was still deep though. Deep enough - it had to be, it certainly felt like it. He lowered his wracking arm into the water, a fresh heap of sobs at the contact to the steaming pool to the neatly torn skin, and watched his blood fill the available space.

It was like an inkblot: spreading through the ripples, diluting until more came behind it to thicken the water. Stan watched it through blurred eyes. He had dropped the razor and couldn't bring himself to find it. He leaned back against the tub, neck resting on the curved porcelain edge.

This is enough.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Stan didn’t answer, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. He didn’t want Richie to see this. They had no skeleton key to get into the other rooms of the apartment, the building was too old for that, so Richie would have to call the police. He always dropped his phone on his desk when he comes home - always forgetting he did - so he would have to run back to the living room to call.

The police would arrive. But busy streets and six flights of stairs would make them too late. They would come in ahead of him, and Stan would be packed away, and Richie wouldn’t see a thing. 

Stan wouldn’t be able to face Richie anyway.

He was always the weakest, couldn’t face a thing. It knew that, that’s why It took him. Beverly couldn’t die, but Stanley sure could. It had laughed the whole time, delighted in watching the bird boy squawk. Spinning in circles and just waiting for a friend to save him. But they didn’t - and She got him. She got him in every way that mattered. 

Stanley was tired, not in that peaceful drift everyone always talked about, he still felt aggressively aware of his surroundings. Of the gash in his arm. He knew he should cut again, but the exhaustion in his body went beyond his bones. It was his soul.

Stan didn’t flinch at Richie’s approaching steps, which halted abruptly at what must have been the turn of the hall - Stan never closed the door. He didn’t respond to the knock either. 

“I got that Ale you like, babe, I’ll feed ‘em to you like a mama bird.” Richie joked, and the next knock was more tinny, like a can.

Stan cracked a smile at that, Richie always said such stupid things. He opened his mouth to bite back something, anything, but stopped himself at the pull of the scars. 

Tears were still logged in his throat, he couldn’t speak if he wanted to. Stan sank into the water instead. 

He heard the glass handle twist and stop. The bolt halting Richie’s attempt at entrance. For a moment, Stan thought Richie had stopped breathing. 

“C’mon, Stanley. You can’t stew this long. We’re in a drought!”

Richie laughed again, but his chuckle trailed off into something more nervous. More terrified. Stan sank lower into the water.

“Stan this isn’t funny, unlock the door.” He twisted the knob again, as if it would understand that something was wrong, as if it would yield to his panic, “Stan!” He barked, a crack in his voice betraying his anger for the dread it was. 

Stan didn’t answer.

He instead, heard crash of fallen cans, and the rapid retreat of rubber across wood. Stan’s eyes flicked across the room for a moment, worried that the police may arrive too soon. He wasn’t bleeding as much as he’d hoped, and the longer he heard Richie wheeze the more the feeling itched.

Stan’s fingers went to the cut’s deepest point, and he slowly pressed against the edges of frayed skin - nails biting into the exposed flesh. 

Stan screamed, and nearly bit through his lip to try and stop the sobs. The flow was stronger now, but not as much as he wanted at the start despite the sloshing pink water’s aide.

The pain was blinding, and he didn’t realize Richie had returned to the door until his shouts were rising over the ringing in his ears.

“-an! Stan! Whatever you’re doing - I - we - Fucking _stop it_!” Stan heard a slam against the thin wooden door, and a heaving sob from Richie, “If you’re dead, I - I… _I’ll_ fucking kill you!” 

Stan could hear the splintering of the door, and choked on his wracking cries. He went for the razor once more, but the water was too dark to find it now. 

The door creaked.

Stan’s arm waved through the water - sloshing it across the floor.

The door bent in at the lock.

Stan’s fingers found the blade.

Richie, with one final slam, busted through the bathroom door. His shoulder was slouched, arm limp at his side.

Stan, razor in hand, tried to make one last slice. Richie, for a moment, did not stop him. He was so shocked, frozen to his bones, at what he was seeing. It was clearly what he anticipated, but Stan could see the blood leaving his face. The trembling razor barely knicked his unmarred wrist before Richie dove back into action.

Stan screamed as Richie’s hand clamped like a vice around his wrist, ring and pinky finger pressing into his cut, as he shouted, “Drop it, Stan! Drop it!” He was half in the water, hip checked painfully against the rim of the tub, staining his flannel red as the water creeped up the fibers.

Stan dropped the razor and heard it plunk back into the gore beneath him. He didn’t see it though, his eyes unable to leave Richie’s. Richie was sobbing, eyes moving all across Stan’s heaving face, as if he still wasn’t able to process the broken boy in front of him.

“Oh my God, Oh my God, _Stan_ , what - _Fuck_!” Richie’s grip on his wrist didn’t cease, and Stan felt as though the fingers might as well have been soldering irons - the pain was so much.

Stan felt an arm shove into his good armpit and cried out all over again as he was yanked from the tub and onto the mat. His teeth were chattering as he tried to curl himself away from Richie, away from this shame, this humiliation, this - _this_

Failure. 

Stan Uris couldn’t even kill himself. And fetal on the floor, dripping blood between Richie’s fingers, Stan was struck with the itch again. 

A horrendous tug of war between the itch of his soul and the burn of his scars - pulling him in different directions until Stan was sure there would be nothing left.

… Was there even anything left?

“R-R-Richie, please-” Stan gasped as his arm was jerked above his head, shouting when Richie compressed a towel to stem the still steady flow.

A slam of their front door startled Stan out of his cycle of pain for just a moment, but Richie either didn’t hear or bother to acknowledge it.

Stan looked down and felt a surprising flush to his cheeks. He was still stark naked on the floor - Stan was ready to be carted out his state but that wasn’t with him being alive, let alone aware, to do it. The police -

The police weren’t here. Instead Eddie Kaspbrak’s small frame came hurtling through the broken doorway carrying a home med kit and backpack stuffed with supplies. 

Stan thought, somewhere in the mess of his mind, that he should’ve guessed it was Eddie. Who better to call? He lived in the building over, would get here faster than any ambulance could manager. And the door had closed; police wouldn’t have bothered with that. Eddie closed it because he knew Turtle could have gotten out.

Eddie was also a nurse, separation from his mother allowing him to be able to spot and treat actual ailments. Stan also knew he was fresh off a 12 hour, he was still in his soft sleep pants and old Derry High Track shirt, a hoodie skewed on his shoulders and one sneaker untied. 

But despite his training, that professional detachment didn’t quite click into place at seeing Stan’s shivering body. He dropped to a crouch, and grabbed fresh gauze to staunch Stan’s arm that made him cry out hoarsely, his voice was about to give. 

The _itchburnitchburn_ inside Stan didn’t allow him to focus, he couldn’t make out the shouts between Eddie and Richie’s tear blurred faces. Without the context, they seemed so much like when they were kids again. Arguing over what movie to catch or where to eat for lunch. 

Stan giggled, delighted to see his friends again, back from the recesses of his mind - new and bright all over again, just like the day he met them. 

His titter trailed, a bitter grief in his face, they didn’t need him. They were whole and brave, they had grown and healed after Derry. Stan was too splintered to not taint their light. 

Maybe he really did belong with Her. Back to the pipes where his cowardice let him be taken without struggle. 

They must have known; saw him belly up and prone on the ground as she consumed him. She hadn’t even had a hand on him, and he had collapsed screaming - _wailing_ \- for friends that didn’t need him.

And here they were again, picking up the pieces of Stan as he bled out on the floor. Eddie had a hand on his neck, gentling him to the ground just like - just like

Her.

Belly up and prone again as the blood sluiced out of him. He stared ahead unblinking, unfeeling. Bloody hands gripped his face, shaking him to _Stay awake! Stay awake, Stanley!_ Didn’t they realize? He’d never been more awake in his life. More aware.

The sconces stared down at him: a trio of yellow lights swirling across his peripheral. The deadlights, and he was held down - forced to see them again, to go into them.

Stan’s head cracked against the floor as he let out the most piercing _shriek_ he had ever heard - it didn’t even register as his own voice. The two boys jumped at the noise, hands gripping him tighter, but Stan couldn’t look away from the lights. They swirled, danced, summoning him to their insanity.

The two boys were clinging to him, but couldn’t they see? He was already gone. It’d gotten him long before this. The noises above him kept growing, but Stan was unable to be distinguish over the ringing in his ears. 

He felt two hands leave him and in his trapped peripherals he watched Richie stand - no, no _Christ_ don’t leave him, don’t leave him again when you had promised him safety. He was letting It have him, letting It feed on his fear, cutting out the weakness of the seven, he -

Richie was back with, if the soft knit against Stan’s skin was any indication, their blanket. It was a thick soft gray yarn and Richie’s favorite - no, stop -

“I-I-I’ll get blood on it. You can’t wash that out, the f-fib-bers…” Stan didn’t realize he’d stopped screaming until his eyes focused on the splitting watery grin across Richie’s face - he didn’t even know he’d been speaking. 

“Christ, Stanny, it’s alright. It’s okay! You’re not gonna ruin it.” Richie was wrapping him tight, tucking in close around Stan’s elevated arm, swaddling him like an infant as he tried to keep his voice jovial, “Cause you’re not gonna bleed anymore, okay? You’re gonna stop bleeding, _please_ \- Eds is gonna wrap you up and you’re gonna be just fine, right as rain, tip top shape, Stan my Man!”

Stan’s teeth were chattering so hard he could see Richie’s own face vibrating from where their foreheads touched. Richie gasped for air as desperately as Stan as he pet his curls, staining the honey locks copper.

His eyes were so heavy, begging to shut, to let him rest - just _rest_ \- but Stan would be damned if he didn’t look at his Trashmouth for every graying moment he still could.

The door burst open again, a cacophony of footsteps too loud for Stan’s fraying grasp of his surroundings. It was like the moment his body would hit the waves of the quarry, a deafening slam with immediate silence as he submerged. There was no such reprieve here - the noise only grew louder.

Two bodies entered the small room. Eddie barked to them, words flying so fast that they blurred. The two figures knelt down with him - boxing Stan in at all angles. They slammed around equipment, and Stan choked on shouts as his arm was gripped even tighter. 

The only solace in the chaos was Richie; Richie who pet through the ringlets of Stan’s bloodied curls, who kept their foreheads together as he cooed and comforted Stan.

Stan who had done this to himself.

He really didn’t deserve him.

A fresh wave of sobs hit him with that thought, and Richie swept the tracks away before they could slip past his cheekbones. His gentled voice telling Stan to,

“Just breathe, baby, it’s okay. You’re just fine. Please, _Stan_ , you’re gonna make yourself sick.” Stan, with no other direction or grasp, tried to heave in air as asked, “That’s good, that’s so good, you’re doing great.”

Richie’s eyes lost his connection for a second, a whine bubbling in Stan’s throat at the break. His eyes darted back to his own, but they were wider now.

“Okay, baby, that’s great. Keep breathing, you’re doing so good.” Richie sucked in a breath through his teeth as their foreheads disconnected, “Now I’m gonna need you to stay calm, okay? I’m _right here_ , you’re okay -” 

Stan felt two sets of arms shove underneath his back and legs and he was hoisted into the air. His arm was kept by him the best that it could be, but Eddie was small - the sudden change of altitude leading to inevitable jostling of the torn edges beneath soaked gauze. 

Stan couldn’t even shriek, the headrush and pain leaving him with his mouth unhinged - air unable to escape as he was lowered to a stretcher.

Straps were tightened across him, a oxygen mask strapped over his face. People were shouting at him, questions, instructions, something - but all Stan wanted was Richie. Richie who was being held back by one of the strangers, face ashen as he listened and _wasn’t with Stan_. The doorframe flew by him, and Richie was gone. 

Stan finally closed his eyes for the as he wept. 

 

 

 

 

Stan woke up twenty seven hours later. He awoke in a glass box where the outside world passed in a distorted rush - and the silence of the room was only broken by the beeps of monitors.

He woke up alone with tubes in his nose, in a hospital gown, and thirty nine stitches through his forearm. The arm was heavily bandaged, almost as thick as Eddie’s old cast, to keep him from attempting further damages.

The wrappings felt like a moot point though, since he’d woken up to both his wrists cuffed to the bed in a soft but unyielding material. 

He was still too fuzzy to properly freak out, to be ashamed of the call that must have been made to his parents, to think about how he was a failure once again. Whatever sedatives he’d been given were leaving him numb, unfazed, unbothered.

He was staring at the IV port in the crook of his good elbow, dripping who knows what into his body, when Richie appeared behind the glass.

Stan hadn’t even seen him in his line of sight, just - _felt_ him there. He was their heart after all, hard not to know where your heart is. 

He was standing there, frozen midstep, with an obscenely large coffee in his hands. For a moment Stan almost laughed, he looked like a muppet with his jaw slacked like that. 

Then he saw the sling, and as Richie flew across the pane of separation Stan remembered why he was here. He jolted in his restraints as Richie flew into the room. The styrofoam mug barely making it to the side table before Richie’s hands were on him, whisping brushes across his bundled knees as if he wasn’t sure he was real.

The bed whirred upright, Richie already gentling Stan’s arm under a pillow to keep it from bending, and Stan let his head drop to Richie’s shoulder. He didn’t want to cry anymore, didn’t think he even had it in him, but the breath he took was ragged nonetheless.

“ _Shhh_ , baby, it’s okay.” Richie’s hand found the back of his neck, gentling him as he heaved with empty eyes, “You’re alright, everything’s alright, I’m _right here_.” 

Stan’s hands reached to hold Richie before the clink of the restraints echoed in the room. Richie’s hand never stopped stroking his neck, but Stan let out a whine as he feebly jerked against them - how could they keep him from holding Richie?

“No, no - _baby_ , stop,” Richie cooed as he put his free hand in Stan’s own. Stan’s fingers immediately clenched, not even flinching at the sharp twist of the tube in his arm at the muscles shifting. 

“There you go, it’s alright,” It was anything _but_ alright, Stan thought miserably, “Everything is okay, what did I tell you, Stan my Man? You didn’t even ruin the blanket!” he giggled wetly into Stan’s hair.

Stan snorted at that, an unsteady smile at the ridiculous comfort that brought him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, needing this normality in this unnerving environment -

“No, baby, don’t speak,” Richie quickly shushed as a hoarse cough came up instead, “You… you screamed so much they said you damaged your throat.” Richie’s hand left his neck, thumb stroking across the back of Stan’s clenched hand faster at his responding wheeze, “Not a lot! Just, gotta let that sweet voice rest.”

A few precarious clunks later, and Richie’s chin was nudging against Stan’s forehead, urging his face out of his neck. Stan resisted, but his body was too loose to put up enough of a fight. Once his mouth was free of Richie’s clavicle he felt a straw tap against his lower lip.

Stan gulped -

“Sip, baby, it’s not going anywhere, little slower for me.” 

Stan sipped as Richie stroked his fingers through his fresh hair - Stan went a little red despite himself, had someone bathed him? It made sense of course, from the bits that Stan could remember of his state at the time. He looked down and, sure enough, his body was no longer stained a spectrum of red from the… what had happened.

And Stan was, in Bill’s kind words, a _bit_ of a prude. He’d stoically mention a well timed escapade with Richie just to watch Bill choke on a beer, but wouldn’t ever shower around in the lockers. Once, in high school, Ben had opened the bathroom door to Stan naked and got a shriek and shoe in the head for his trouble.

Richie saw his flushed cheeks and laughed a bit, “Eddie did it, you think I’d let anyone else near your cute ass?” he tugged on his nose a bit and Stan rolled his eyes. His thoughts were still too caught in the murky state of medication to get in a proper roast but any plans of it froze at the sight of his arm out of the sling. He had removed it to hold Stan’s hand, oh _God_ \- 

He couldn’t gesture, but he must have looked panicked enough - heart monitor picking up tempo - that Richie looked down.

Richie’s eyes mirrored his own, but he had on a splitting grin and lifted his hand in a placating gesture, “No! Oh, _Christ_ , right, it’s not broken!” Stan didn’t look convinced, “I just pulled the muscles and bruised the shit out of it when I… when I hit the door.”

The smile creaked for only a moment before Richie chuckled, “I got the green light, but you know how Eds is,” He winked, “I’ve been wearing the sling so he’ll leave me alone about it. I keep using the arm anyways, ‘bout made the barista downstairs shit herself when I reached for sugar.”

Stan wheezed a laughed before Richie’s expression became vulnerable. There was a stifling silence that followed.

“I’m not going to interrogate you, Stanley.” Richie finally started, and Stan tensed under his hands, “Because I think I already know. I already know how you see yourself, how you hate yourself every time you think I’m not looking.” 

Stan tried to open his mouth, habit demanding he make a hollow denial of the obvious truth in Richie’s words. Richie shook his head before his lips could fully part.

“You know I’m not stupid, and I know you’re not - so don’t act like we both don’t already know that.” Despite the words, they had no bite, “I just -” He took a shuddering breath, “I’m sorry.”

Stan blinked. _What?_

“I’m sorry that I didn’t push harder, or that I pushed _too much_ \- I don’t know. I’m sorry.” The whites of Richie’s eyes were turning pink with each blink, the tears welling making his irises seem even larger, “You’re not alone Stan. You’ve _never_ been alone. I would never leave you, I _promised_ \- we all promised.”

Stan felt a clench in this throat that had nothing to do with the screams.

“It got you, I know, and that was _our_ fault. We never left you. We were kids and we didn’t _know_ and It tricked us. It tricked us and took you away.” Richie’s fingers slipped from Stan’s curls to the top of his scars, “But It didn’t keep you.” 

Stan wheezed, words unable to form despite his tries, how did Richie not understand? It had gotten him, It had taken him, and bit into him and dragged him away and -

“No. It didn’t keep you.” Both hands were on his face now, fingertips soothing across angry red bumps, “Because we got you, we got you and you fought back, remember? And you were so brave, baby.”

Stan shook his head, trying to jostle away the kindness he didn’t deserve. Richie held tighter - but kept his touch feather light, so unlike the incisors that dug and claimed. 

Stan watched Richie’s face come too close to focus on, lips brushing the deepest scar right beneath the corner of his right brow. That was the first tooth to pierce him, Stan remembered, the fang had skewed upon puncture and slid to the edge of his socket, his skull had been in the way. Stan had felt the enamel sink alongside his eye and was sure It would blind him.

“You were so brave, do you remember how you saved Mike? How you dove for It? How you beat that fucker with a _pipe_?” He kissed along each defect in Stan’s face, treating the disfigured halo as if it were something precious.

“You’re still so brave too, you know that?” Stan’s eyes, despite everything, found the tears to water, “Bravest boy I ever met. None of us faced It like you did, and you know what? You pulled yourself out.”

Stan rasped on a syllable, he hadn’t, It had retreated when the boys arrived. Stan had just… laid there.

“No, baby, you did.” the thumbs and mouth stopped their cycle, Richie’s lips landing at the corner of his mouth, “You were still awake, you saw those fucking lights and didn’t go into them. Bev got pulled, fuck, we all would’ve been, but you stayed right where you were. You held out and you _fought_ It and you waited for us to find you.”

Stan was sobbing now, shakes wracking his ribs as he listened to this unfiltered declaration, he couldn’t take it, “ _I_ -” the words caught between the choke of his tears and the burn of his throat, “I wa - as so _scared_.”

He had never admitted that before. Though he never felt it needed to be said, it was obvious, seeping from every pore of his being. It was like a brand across his heart that clung deeper than the pockets of skin ever could. He had been a coward. Terrified - _horrified_ -

“You were.” It wasn’t unexpected, but it still hurt Stan’s soul to hear him agree, “You were so scared. We all were. But you were so _brave_. You still fought, even though you were terrified. Even though It had already hurt you so much.”

Without letting go of his face, Richie twisted and fumbled until he was in Stan’s lap - mindful of his two out of commission arms. 

“You’re so brave, sweet boy, the bravest.” He pressed their foreheads together once more, “And I know you hate these scars, I know what they mean to you, but they mean the world to _me_.”

Stan, with Richie’s new position, clung to his ankles as an anchor, just to touch some part of him. 

“I know you’re scared, even now, and that’s okay. I am too. But - We’re gonna be okay. I promise, just like I promised then. Nothing is gonna happen to you.” 

Stan felt that he should be humiliated. The room was glass, his heaves and their position was on display for anyone to see. But, he wasn’t.

He felt… clean. Awake in a way he wasn’t before. He was terrified - sure - but for the first time he felt like that could be okay. 

He didn’t know how long they had stayed like that, enough that his death grip to Richie’s heels became a brush of his knuckles timed to the matched scratches across his scalp. 

A gentle knock to the door made him move his face from Richie’s - but only after he heard the voice with it.

“Hey, Stan.” Eddie spoke, clear and confident as he strode into the room. He did a quick round of the vitals before landing in front of the duo. Richie didn’t bother to move off of Stan’s lap, Eddie wasn’t looking at him anyway. His big brown eyes were focused on Stan’s own. 

“I’m not going to lecture you. Richie asked me not to.” He began, “But if you ever - _ever_ pull this shit again.” Eddie took a deep inhale, calming himself down, he didn’t even blink to break his look, “Don’t.”

Stan nodded, eyes slipping down and away. He felt Eddie’s hand thread into his hair, tugging lightly until he looked up, “I don’t wanna ever bathe you with that human garbage can standing over me again, Uris.”

Richie gasped insulted as Eddie and Stan grinned at each other. 

“N… No - oted.” Stan wheezed.

“Uh! What did I say!?” Eddie’s fire was back in a heartbeat, swinging on Richie, “He can’t talk, Dickhead - why didn’t you _tell_ him, Oh my God!”

“You say that like he ever listens to me.” Richie chuckled, twirling a curl across Stan’s forehead.

“I've heard enough about your sex life to know that he certainly _can and enjoys it_.” Richie and Stan both sputtered, Richie letting out a cackle as Stan shot Eddie a scathing look that fell short from the blush staining his cheeks.

“Edward Spaghettward, gets off a good one! At work no less, honestly Eds, doctor-patient confidentiality -”

“I’m a nurse, Tozier.”

“Well hell _oooo, Nurse_!”

Stan nipped Richie’s lobe, effectively halting his tirade. Eddie cackled at Richie’s wide eyed blush from the unexpected attack and Stan dropped his head to Richie’s neck once more.

He didn’t know what was going to happen next. The rest of the Losers were coming - answering Richie’s call for aide. He was scared of their reactions, scared of what this meant for him, scared of all the possibilities he didn’t know how to plan for.

He was scared.

But he’d try to be brave.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Can't Pretend by Tom Odell
> 
> let me know if it sucks. this was a prompt by Punk_Rock_Yuppie that was supposed to be sweet and then i made it horrible.
> 
> hit me up on tumblr if you want - birdboyinthedeadlights
> 
> i'm sorRY I CAN'T KILL STAN. I CAN'T DO IT.


End file.
